This Place That Heaven Forgot
by sumthin.clever.5
Summary: Picfic. Alternate ending to The Great Game. What if the semtex vest actually went off?


A/N: Guess who has endless pictures to write fics about. You got it. Me. Bu this is one my Alpha and I have been working on for ages. I finally did it! Short as it is.

Pic: tinypic [dotcom] / r / xd6r7o / 5

* * *

This Place That Heaven Forgot

Sherlock ripped the semtex vest off of John's chest and flung it across the pool deck. He moved frantically, looking around for any other threats.

Moriarty had just disappeared out the door after an ominous threat. He'd supposedly called off his men as he went, but Sherlock didn't need any more surprises. Not on top of John being taken and used as Moriarty's potential next victim. Not to mention a very pointed warning to Sherlock.

Sherlock checked John over again for injuries, sweeping him with eyes and hands. Too close. This was way _too close_ a call. _Stupid._ He'd been stupid to not consider that Moriarty would use John to get to him.

John's knees had buckled under him and he crouched against the wall of changing stalls. His breathing was erratic, the reality of the situation clearly coming crashing down on him. Sherlock couldn't leave him there to wallow in his trauma.

Sherlock pulled John toward the exit. They had to get out of here immediately. He wanted them as far from the building as possible.

No sooner were they clearing the door to the street than a blast shook the building. Sherlock and John were lifted off their feet and flung forward several yards as the structure behind them implicitly exploded.

Sherlock hit the pavement with a thud, his head smacking the ground with a worrying crack.

Sherlock's world went black to the screams of people as background noise…

* * *

Sherlock woke to the smell of _sanitary_. The disinfectant here was strong and lingering. He was in the hospital. Obviously. The _beep beep beep_ of the bedside monitor and the starched sheets beneath his body verified this fact.

Sherlock let the murmured voices from directly outside of his room filter into his consciousness. Lestrade was here. Of course he was. Sherlock had just been in the blast zone of an explosion for the second time in days.

Sherlock allowed that annoying thought to permeate his brain until he thought of the other victim of this. _JOHN!_

Where was he?

Sherlock's eyes flashed open and he jerked his head around, ignoring the brain-splintering headache this produced. John was not in his room. Which meant John was in another room. Which meant John was likely hurt. And of course he was; he had been in the blast zone of an explosion.

The increased heart-rate echoing on the heart monitor was less than insignificant. As were the nurses rushing into the room with Lestrade quick on their heels. As were their protests and attempts to push him back onto the bed.

He did NOT have a concussion. The spinning room was just a result of him moving a bit too fast. He'd hit his head quite hard, after all. A bit of dizziness was expected after such an impact. But that did _not_ mean his body functions were overall impaired.

He would not be sitting here while John was holed up somewhere else, maybe suffering far worse than Sherlock himself was.

Sherlock shot the nurses a quelling look, waiting until they backed off in the wake of his unstated threat, before turning his indomitable stare on Lestrade.

"John."

Question. Demand. Plea.

Lestrade stood still and met his gaze squarely despite the shifting Sherlock could tell the DI wanted to do. But he answered Sherlock's question directly, knowing any side stepping or any requesting of other information would not bode well for him.

"He's in a room down the hall," Lestrade started.

That was all Sherlock needed to know, frankly. He attempted again to get up from the bed but Lestrade shot him a warning look and continued speaking.

"He _also_ has a concussion and is currently resting. You will not bother him right now," he said with all the authority his position afforded him.

Sherlock made to protest. First, he did _not_ have a concussion, and second, John needed him, especially if he had a concussion. He would not be bothering him to go sit in his room.

"He also lost a bit too much blood due to a blow to the head from flying debris so they have him hooked up to an IV," Lestrade finished.

This was yet another reason for Sherlock to go to him. Why didn't Lestrade see this?

"I need to see him," Sherlock said.

"No, you need to rest and let John do the same. You can see him tomorrow when he wakes up," Lestrade countered. "Do you want to hinder his recovery?"

Sherlock scowled at him but didn't respond and didn't move. He didn't want to impede upon John's recuperation. But he needed to see him. Needed to see for himself that John was fine.

Lestrade took Sherlock's silence as acquiescence and smiled at him. Fool.

"Good. Now, I'll be back tomorrow morning for questioning. Please try not to destroy the hospital before I get back, yeah?"

Sherlock just continued his stare and kept his silence. Lestrade sighed in his direction before turning his attention to the nurses.

"Don't let him get to you. He's a pleasure, really."

Sherlock only barely managed to cut off his snort to that remark. How Lestrade had managed to keep almost all of the sarcasm out of his voice as he'd said it was beyond him. No matter. Sherlock was done interacting with these people. His only focus now was determining when he should go see John, permission be damned.

Lestrade bid Sherlock and the nurses farewell and Sherlock allowed the nurses to approach him and re-secure the hookups to the heart monitor. Anything that made them leave quicker.

He steepled his fingers and disappeared into his mind palace. Might as well consider his day since he wouldn't be going anywhere for a bit.

Why had the vest gone off? Sherlock doubted Moriarty had stuck around for the explosion. Had he detonated it via remote control as he had with the old woman? Why wait so long after he'd left? He couldn't have intended to kill Sherlock. He was too far away from the blast for it to have been fatal. Or had it been on a timer? Had he always intended to kill john?

Sherlock didn't know. Too much surrounding Jim Moriarty was a mystery to him. He needed to figure the man out, break him down to his every thought. He needed to find a weakness for him, as he had clearly found Sherlock's.

Sherlock's thoughts circled, questions being approached from several angles. When Sherlock finally opened his eyes again, the hospital was quiet around him. The only noise in his immediate vicinity came from his heart monitor, beeping steady and strong.

Sherlock eyed it for a moment before detaching himself from its connectors. The beeping died immediately.

Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed. Almost completely steady. Much less dizziness this time. No headache. He was NOT concussed. He'd told these idiots that.

He stood on legs that hardly wobbled and made his way out the door of his room. No one ghosted the halls at the moment and so he crept on less quiet feet than he would have had he been avoiding being found out of his room.

Sherlock made his way down the hall, checking rooms for John. When he found him, he swept into the room with barely a sound and stood before John's bed.

He stared at his sleeping friend. The only person who had gotten this close to him in….ever. And he'd been stupid enough to let him get played pawn by Moriarty.

He swept his eyes over John again, noting injuries. He wouldn't let his emotions get involved. Not yet. His methodical mind catalogued John's injuries in the detached way he deduced anything.

Head bandaged. _Blow to the head. Blood loss._ Bruise under his left eye. _Falling debris. Nicked him after his fall._ IV line attached to his hand. _Blood restorative_. Scratches prevalent across entire body. _Result of fall at high speed. _

Sherlock's own body was likewise covered in such scratches. Minimal damage. His cheek was even bandaged from a minor cut. Negligible injuries. He was fine.

Sherlock watched the heart monitor that was attached to John beep. Steady. Strong. Healthy.

Not enough.

Sherlock didn't trust the machine to determine the John's health. Doubted the validity of the cold equipment. What did it know of a strong heart? Because John had a strong heart. A strong body. A strong, albeit fairly idiotic, mind.

Sherlock moved the wires of the insufficient equipment out of the way and placed his hand against John's heart. Its beat matched the echo of the heart monitor. Steady. Strong. Healthy.

Not enough.

Sherlock grabbed John's right wrist to feel the pulse there. The pump of his blood through his system. Proof that his heart was working as it should. The pulse was normal. Steady. Strong. Healthy.

Not enough.

Sherlock couldn't quell the uncertainty in his heart. Couldn't still the buzzing need to verify in his head.

He placed his forehead next to his hand on John's chest.

Being as close to John as he was, having such intimate contact as he was currently employing, he recognised when John's breathing changed, when his heartbeat sped up slightly. When he woke up.

He felt when John groaned, his mind sending him responses of the pains throughout his body. Sherlock felt similar pains. Negligible.

Sherlock knew he should move. Knew he should step back and give John his space and ask him if he was alright despite the fact that he knew he both was and wasn't. That was the proper thing to do. The socially acceptable thing to do.

Sherlock stayed where he was- hands on John's pulse points and head on John's chest. If John wanted him to move, he'd have to physically move him.

John didn't. Instead, he lifted his free hand and placed it on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock felt his brow un-furrowed. He hadn't even felt the wrinkle form. But he recognised it as a release of some of his tension. Sherlock breathed. Inhale. Exhale. John was fine. Sherlock hadn't failed him.

John's hand moved to the back of Sherlock's neck and massaged. And Sherlock felt more of his tension fade. John felt well enough to comfort _him_. John was fine.

When John's hand disappeared into Sherlock's hair, Sherlock chanced a glance up at him.

John returned the look. Steady. His eyes were clear, though Sherlock could read the slight tension at the edges, the acknowledgement and suppression of his pains. But he was smiling at Sherlock.

Sherlock felt his mouth shift, as well. Some semblance of a smile curving his lips. At least he hoped John translated it as a smile. His emotions were some mix of feelings, but he was trying to display that he was happy enough, considering. John was _fine_.

Sherlock wasn't sure what all John saw in his eyes. Probably far too much. Sherlock broke the stare to bury his face back in John's chest, to press his head back close to the source of John's pulse. To hear the beat. Steady. Strong. Healthy.

He supposed they might have to discuss his actions later. Talk about his need for closeness right now. But that was something to focus on when they were no longer in hospital.

John's hands stroked through Sherlock's curls and Sherlock breathed. Inhale. Exhale.


End file.
